


The Sleeper in the Subway (Part Two)

by mother_finch



Series: The Sleeper in the Subway [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:55:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6735046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>NOT A PROMPT: "Target Three, Samantha Groves, is dead," Sameen Shaw says into her com, eyes in the direction of the bed. Nothing moves. No one moves.</p><p>"Can you confirm?" Greer asks, but Shaw knows from the tone of his voice that he is not asking her. Seconds that stretch like years crawl by. "Very well then," he says, before directing his conversation back to her. "Well done, my dear Sameen."</p><p>"You had to confirm it with your super computer?" Shaw asks menacingly, fingernails digging into the grip of her handgun. "I thought you trusted me by now."</p><p>"It's not that I don't trust you," he replies, "but I don't trust Miss Groves. She is very illusive in that way."</p><p>"Yeah, well, if you're done confirming my kill, I have more bodies to drop." She taps her foot impatiently, waiting.</p><p>"Fair enough," Greer tells her at last. "Be sure to keep in touch."</p><p>"What could ever keep me from getting in some small talk with you, Greer?" She trills sarcastically, before angrily swiping at her ear. Then, picking the ear wig out, she drops it to the floor, crushing it under her heel. It makes the faintest of metallic crunches, a small whine, then becomes nothing more than mechanical powder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sleeper in the Subway (Part Two)

**Author's Note:**

> For that anon that asked about it the other day, and all the other people who’ve been messaging me for it to come back, I hope you enjoy it! It’s (really) kinda (I mean reallyyyy) long, but I hope you don’t mind.

"Target Three, Samantha Groves, is dead," Sameen Shaw says into her com, eyes in the direction of the bed. Nothing moves. No one moves.

"Can you confirm?" Greer asks, but Shaw knows from the tone of his voice that he is not asking her. Seconds that stretch like years crawl by. "Very well then," he says, before directing his conversation back to her. "Well done, my dear Sameen."

"You had to confirm it with your super computer?" Shaw asks menacingly, fingernails digging into the grip of her handgun. "I thought you _trusted_ me by now."

"It's not that I don't trust _you_ ," he replies, "but I don't trust Miss Groves. She is very illusive in that way."

"Yeah, well, if you're done confirming my kill, I have more bodies to _drop_." She taps her foot impatiently, waiting.

"Fair enough," Greer tells her at last. "Be sure to keep in touch."

"What could _ever_ keep me from getting in some small talk with _you_ , Greer?" She trills sarcastically, before angrily swiping at her ear. Then, picking the ear wig out, she drops it to the floor, crushing it under her heel. It makes the faintest of metallic crunches, a small whine, then becomes nothing more than mechanical powder.

"Can y-"

"Shut up, and stay _down_ ," Shaw growls, stowing her cell in her back pocket before coming around the left side of the bed. Shaw grabs the brunette by the hair, forcing her gaze up to Shaw's. _Root_. Root's eyes wide and terrified and confused. Shaw places the cold metal of the gun on Root's jawline, and Root does all she can not to flinch against its icy touch.

"Now listen, because I'm not gonna repeat myself," Shaw says in a barely audible tone. "I don't know what the Hell is going on, but what I _do_ know is that I have commands to _kill_ you. And I _didn't_. But if you give me even _half_ of a reason, I will _not_ make the same mistake. Understood?" Root is at a loss for words, unsure if she should speak or nod her head. Finally, she gives a microscopic nod, wincing against Shaw's strong grip on her hair. "Good," Shaw says, releasing the hold, allowing Root's head to flop back to the mattress. Shaw takes a long glance at the bullet lodged in the bedpost, then stows her gun back in her waistband. Kneeling down at Root's side, she whispers. "For all intents and purposes, you're dead. And unless you know anywhere that doesn't have a street camera attatched to it, you're gonna have to play dead for a _long_ time."

"I've got a map of places," Root responds, voice no more than a breath. Then, "Shaw?" Shaw ignores her. "Sameen?"

" _What_ ," Shaw snarls, mentally tacking off things on a to-do list.

"Whatever's happening, I'm sure you have a reason," she says, and Shaw purses her lips. "But, when you get a chance, can you tell me _what_ that reason is?"

"I have questions for you first," Shaw responds after a quiet moment. "Now, remember what I said about being dead? Corpses don't _talk_." And with that, Shaw loops her arms under Root's, lacing her fingers together and pulls her off the bed. The blinds had been drawn after the gunshot rung through the air, and Root had had just enough time to get dressed before Shaw's first decided check in. _But now?_ Now they're all on the clock.

"Hope you don't keep anything important in here," Shaw mutters, kicking open the front door.

"Nothing's important to a dead body," Root replies, then goes entirely slack in Shaw's arms, hair covering her face as Shaw drags her to the elevator, every nerve on edge.

* * *

 

______ ||Phase Two: Kill Them All|| _______

Shaw sits on an ancient, rotting stool in a bar as old as Manhattan itself, addressing a superficial flesh wound on Root's shoulder. She hadn't meant to clip Root with the bullet, but there was only so much space Shaw had to shoot before making a hole in the neighbor's wall. Besides, it gives her a distraction now, and any distraction is a good one.

In the back corner of the bar, John Reese is tied to a support beam, unconscious and likewise to remain that way for a few more hours. Harold too, is out of sorts, glasses cracked and hands tied behind his back. While Shaw swiped a syringe for John, she had no idea just how much fight Harold had in him. Just thinking about it, her knuckles begin to sting.

"How much longer is this going to take, Doc?" Root coos playfully, jarring Shaw from her musings. Peering at Root, Shaw is somewhat stunned to see how calm she is, especially with the number of questions that have to be rattling about inside her head. Except, maybe Greer was right, and Root already knows everything she needs to. The thoughts bring a migraine to the front and center of Shaw's head and she closes her eyes, trying to block out the pain.

There is a shuffle from before her, then a hand at either side of her head, thumbs kneading at the knots in her temples. Instinct screams for her to swat Root away; yet, she abstains, the motion helping to relieve the pressure. Shaw lets herself fade in and out of focus, waiting for the headache to cease.

"When did we meet," Shaw asks, the question coming out before she has a chance to hold it back. Root pauses a moment, then picks back up, silently thinking of something.

"A couple years ago," she settles on at last. "I was looking for the Machine, and you were looking for Caroline Turning."

"The name doesn't ring a bell," Shaw mutters; Root gives a silent laugh.

"She was a number I pretended to be. I wanted to find the Machine, and knew that that was the best way to it. And you showed up at the front door, and..." Shaw waits, waits until her nonexistent patience drains entirely.

"And then _what?_ " Shaw demands.

"We talked," Root replies. "You heard a noise in the bathroom. You went to investigate, found the real Caroline duct taped in the bath tub, and I tazed you."

" _Really_ ," Shaw scoffs. "You can fight and you can shoot, but you _tazed_ me instead?"

"I couldn't fight until you taught me to," Root remarks silently, and Shaw's eyes flicker open. Root isn't looking at her, rather down at her lap. "I uh, I zip tied you to a chair and held an iron to your face." Root smiles, as if something about the memory is pleasant. Shaw remembers it faintly from that dream. That dream that made her question everything Samaritan had shown her in the first place. The dream that brought her right here, right now. "You told me that there was something you'd left out of your file," Root tells her, smile growing. "You said that you kind of enjoyed-"

"That sort of thing," Shaw finishes, not sure what part of her those words came from. Root looks up, eyes glowing.

"And that's when I knew," Root says, lopsided smile playing affectionately on her features, making her impossibly more beautiful.

"Knew what?" Shaw asks, although she's unsure if she wants to know the answer. Root wiggles her brows with an untold secret before leaning in with a devious smirk that leaves Shaw's heart sputtering and lungs yearning for breath.

"That we were going to have so much _fun_ together." With that, Root brings her hands back to her sides, leaning her back against the bar with a sigh. Watching Harold and Reese propped up against one another with Bear curled up over the briefcase. Shaw doesn't know what to do; think. Part of Shaw wants to kiss her. Another part to tie her up with the men in case she turns. A third part knows she will _never_ turn. And a fourth rivals with the fifth, one saying she's not to be trusted while the other one insists Root's the only one _to_ trust. There are so many unfitting pieces to Shaw's mind, she wonders if she's been trying to fit the wrong pieces of two different puzzles together this entire time.

Instead of trying to find the right words, Shaw says nothing at all. Rather, she grabs Root's cell from the counter, clicking it unlocked and watching her own phone blip on the GPS as a train car chugs off to Maine with it. It's the best she can do to stay off Samaritan's radar, at least until she can decide who to trust. Yet, past trust, Shaw finds the necessity of sleep closing in around her, and she's no longer able to force it out. She wants to- needs to stay awake. The last thing she wants is to wake up like Harold Finch or John Reese. However, as her eyelids turn from feathers to lead in a single blink, the idea of waking up in zip ties no longer seems to matter.

_______ ||Phase Two: Pick a Side|| ________

"How could you let this _happen_?" A voice hisses, pulling Shaw back from the depths of sleep.

"She just needs a little time," Root's voice insists from somewhere nearby. Somewhere close.

"She tied us to a pole," it spits back. A hand tightens protectively on Shaw's shoulder.

"If it's any consolation, _I_ helped," Root replies tactlessly, and there is an irritated sigh.

"You won't win this one, Harry," Reese pipes in.

" _Please_ ," Harold says in exasperation. "Don't call me that."

"She was tortured and lied to," Reese tells him. "Aren't _you_ the one who wanted proof that there was _more_ to it than a heavy beating? Here it is."

"I see _it_ ," Harold steams, Shaw gaining a fleck of irritation at being referred to as an it. "And _it_ is dangerous, and _it_ tried to _kill_ us."

"She's the reason we're alive right now," Root shoots back.

"Yes, and the bullet wound was a _complete_ accident," Harold replies crossly. Then, he lets out a slow breath. "I understand your feelings towards Ms. Shaw, but she is not the same person she used to be. She's unstable at best and murderous at worst."

Silence.

"She just needs a little time," Root repeats, and Shaw takes it as a cue to open her eyes.

The whole world is tilted on a ninety degree angle. Reese and Finch sit on the wall, bound still to the pole, only now it stretches across the room like a limbo stick.

"Don't the two of _you_ look cozy," Shaw teases, voice held with a small scratch from the dryness of her throat. Harold's eyes harden at the comment, all the while Reese merely flashes an amused smirk.

" _You_ don't look so bad off yourself," Reese replies. Curious, and with a quick flicker of her eyes, Shaw finds her head is placed in Root's lap. She still feels Root's hand on her shoulder, and is unsure how she managed to travel across the room and end up here. Stretching, back arching out like a cat and claws unsheathing, she sits up, leaning her back against the fake wood of the bar at Root's side.

She stares at Harold, and Harold stares back.

"Is there something I can _help_ you with, Ms. Shaw?" His voice is ice that tears at Shaw's skin like knives. Still, she doesn't flinch.

"You can probably tell I'm on the fence right now. I want to know the truth. Starting with how you control the Machine."

"The Machine is a closed system." Harold remarks tersely. "I cannot _control_ what it does, but we- _people_ \- we take a part in finding out what it's asking of us."

"So it's dangerous."

"It's... yes," he replies, solemnly. "It's dangerous. But anything with a source of power is. The difference is that while the Machine is closed, Samaritan is open. An open system allows anyone access to that power. They can take it, and they can destroy with it. They can _abuse_ it. What the Machine has- while staggering and yes potentially hazardous- is a way to keep that power contained to something that cannot cheat, or lie, or hold one person's life higher than another. The Machine will not tell you all the information you want to know on anyone in the world. It gives you a number. A number that is either a victim or a perpetrator. And that's where we come in."

"So, people still _dictate_ that power," Shaw concludes, but Harold shakes his head.

"No," he responds. "People are the only reason the Machine is not a monster. An artificial intelligence can do many things. It can see, it can hear, it can understand; it can communicate. It cannot feel."

"She-" Harold throws Root a wicked stare that holds until Root drops whatever thought grips her mind.

"You think She does, and I know that, but at the end of the day, an AI is not human. Humans know beyond any form of intelligence when a life deserves to be spared. We keep a human element in everything we do to spare as many lives as we can."

"Samaritan uses human operatives," Shaw points out, and Harold doesn't even take a second's pause before diving back in.

"Samaritan gives you all the information you need to _kill_. Samaritan operatives have no need to think, because all the justification they need is given to them, and they never bother with fitting together the entire story. Take yourself, as an example." Shaw's jaw tightens, fingers curling into fists as her eyes slowly turn red with rage. "You were told to come out here and observe, right?"

Stiffly, Shaw nods her head.

"But you didn't want to do that, _did_ you?"

Shaw shakes her head, teeth grinding, patience at an all time deficit.

"You wanted to find us and kill us without question. Because that's what every other agent gets to do. They don't have to do the grunt work, they just get a name and a gun."

Root hits a boiling point. "Harold, that's en-"

"He's right," Shaw interrupts, not daring to look her away. She can feel the surprise in Root's eyes as it leaves the cold sting of betrayal on Shaw's skin. "But so what? What does _that_ have to do with _this_?"

"You did what we do," Harold explains. Slowly, fluidly, as if he's laying out a walkway brick by brick, waiting for her to catch up with his tile-work. "You had to gather the other half of the story; the side no one- not even Greer- would tell you about. And at the end of the day, you made a human decision. Not one dictated by a computer. _You_ decided our necessities outweighed our evils, and you rejected Samaritan. Otherwise, if you hadn't, you'd be back at your base right now, and we'd all be in bodybags in a landfill somewhere." Shaw's nails dig painful divots into her palms, the skin splitting under the pressure to let out small bubbles of crimson. After a silence that pins Shaw to the spot, Harold continues in a low voice all but twisted in a challenge. "Correct me if I'm mistaken."

She can't. As much as she yearns to extract a flaw in his code, there is nothing refutable about what he's said. Still, she boils in solitude for a while, waiting as long as she can to give him the satisfaction of being correct.

"Let's say I believe you," she responds at last, darting her eyes towards Root, who forcibly peers straight ahead. "What's the plan?"

"To get the Machine back online," Harold answers firmly, and Shaw sighs. Extending a pocket knife forward, she cuts his restraints, then moves efficiently to Reese. Both men rub their red wrists, and Reese extends his his legs to full capacity.

"Where's Lionel?" Reese questions. Shaw pushes to a stand, forcing down a wince from the injuries she's neglected to acknowledge for the past few days. Her ankle feels like hell, the bandage wrapped around it not stopping the rickety fracture there.

"He wasn't one of my targets, so we didn't bother with him," Shaw responds, jerking her head Root's way. Root stands, walking around the back side of the bar and out of sight. Shaw leans against the counter, trying to remind herself not to think about the hacker.

"Did you mention anything about him to Samaritan?" Harold all but demands, a confidence in his tone Shaw would take pleasure in choking out. Mechanically, she nods.

"I'll go pick him up at the precinct," Reese decides, standing. "No matter what happened to John Reese, Detective Riley still works a nine to five." With that, he sets out.

"Wait," Shaw calls before he reaches a door whose glass panels are all boarded up. He pauses; turns. "You might want your badge and gun." She rounds the bar, ducks down to the closest shelf, then tosses him the gear. He raises a brow at her before disappearing into the outside world.

An awkward quiet nestles in the space between Shaw and Harold- she who avoids looking his way, and he who won't take his scorching stare from her. Unable to stand it any longer, Shaw stalks from the room, nearly knocking into Root at the entryway of a sorry excuse for a kitchen. Shaw's shoes crunch against cracked linoleum floors, and the wallpaper peels to reveal sagging wood beams.

Root takes a step back, then looks to the walls, keeping her eyes busy as they search each crack and crease of the far wall. Shaw presses her lips together, unsure what Root's thinking, or what to say to diffuse the sudden tension. Shaw rocks on the balls of her feet, stuffing her hands in her front pockets. She clears her throat.

"If it makes a difference," Shaw starts slowly, "I was trying to figure out a way for Greer to hire you guys instead of killing you." Root's gaze darts to Shaw's face instantly, eyes screaming as if she's just been slapped across the face. Root's lip twitches into an angered sneer, skin beginning to radiate furious heat.

"I'd have rather been _dead_ ," Root spits back. She brushes past Shaw, checking her shoulder roughly, and Shaw's jaw hangs agape the slightest bit, the realization of rejection settling in her stomach like curdled milk.

______ ||Phase Two: Memories Lost|| ______

"There was this one time when the two of us went to a high school reunion," John Reese tells Shaw with a chuckle, throwing a rubber ball at the wall and letting it bounce back to him. They sit on the floor of the bar, backs pressed against the island, and Shaw listens to the stories, trying to remember.

"We know each other from _high school_?" Shaw asks, skeptical.

"No,” he replies, tossing the ball again. "It was a cover mission. You were Betty, and I was smacked in the face a lot." Faintly, the blurred outlines of colorful lights, balloons, and a dance floor surfaces in her mind. She can nearly picture it: a brunette, a blonde, and a redhead all approaching Reese just to greet him with the slap of a hand.

"You um... Your cover cheated on one... had a fling with the other... and seduced the blonde's mother, right?" Shaw asks, not exactly certain where the words come from, but somehow feeling they fit. Reese laughs heartily.

"Yeah, that was it." Shaw rests her head back against the bar with a smile. They'd spent an hour like this, Reese giving Shaw old memories to search for, and Shaw finding them with more and more ease.

"There was a kid once, wasn't there?" Shaw asks suddenly, the image of a small child in a school uniform burning into her mind's eye. "Frizzy hair, digital camera?"

"That was Gen," Reese responds. "She was twelve, and made you using counter surveillance tactics."

"Like Hell if I'd _ever_ let that happen to _me_ ," Shaw spits back defensively, and Reese shakes his head with a grin.

"I'm telling you the truth," he says humorously. "She wanted to be a spy. Liked you a lot. God knows _why_ ," he mutters with amusement, and she punches his arm playfully, the full image falling back into place. Tape recordings and a run down apartment complex. Hugging her and taking a metal in return. "I can't uh, I can't really tell you too much of your life before Harold and I found you," Reese tells her, voice turning quiet and serious. "But maybe it'll begin to come back to you." Shaw remains silent, not bothering to tell him that it already had. She remembers bits and pieces, all still blurred, as if she needs to put on reading glasses to see them again. She remembers childhood baseball games, a car crash where her mother picked her up crying, wearing a white lab coat surrounded by young doctors, saying goodbye to her mother as she walked away in a blue, camouflage uniform, the word 'Marine' popping to mind, and sitting out in a van with a man she can't quite remember, gearing up with body armor and a large gun before setting out to a quiet house. Shaw coughs, clearing her throat.

Turning her head away from the wall, Shaw catches a glimpse of Root as she exits the door with Detective Fusco. Her throat becomes tight, and a large portion of her wants to follow them, to follow Root.

"What can you tell me about her," Shaw asks as the door clicks shut. Shaw knew everything tucked neatly into Root's file, but now, she realizes there is so much more to these people than an electronic spread sheet telling her all the reasons she should aim and fire.

"Root? Well, she's... Root," Reese responds slowly, and Shaw turns to face him, wanting to know what he's thinking. "You worked with her a lot more than I ever did, until..." He trails off, leaving Shaw with a bubble of irritation to rise like bile in her throat.

"Until _what_ ," she demands, perhaps a little too forcefully.

"Until the stock exchange," he replies, voice somber. "It, uh, messed her up, leaving you there with Martine standing over you like that." Sharp flashes of a gun to Shaw's head comes to mind, and the devastated screaming that poured from an elevator. Martine's brown eyes cold on hers. Root's fingers coiled around the openings in the chain link gate. "We searched for you for a while, but there were no leads. Root-.. she went off on her own after that. I don't know what she was really doing, but it had to do with you. After you were gone, _everything_ in her head had to do with you. When the Machine went down, she put some things aside, knowing that without the Machine all hope would be lost. For you, for us- for everyone. The second she saw your picture on the news, everything snapped to you again, and she was at the hospital within the hour."

Shaw's head spins, fragments of memories like knives as they stab into her skull, willing her to remember. She can see it, she can see a jet, and drinks, and scalpels with computer servers. She can see a bear costume, and her hand on Root's neck, and so much more. All these things locked away, leaking out like a biohazard and polluting her cleansed brain. More than ever before, she feels herself distanced from Greer, and all he's said. She can envision shoot outs with John Reese, getting caught eating at Harold's desk, and Norooz with Fusco. Everything, at last, falls into focus.

"Well, she's pissed at me now," Shaw remarks, rolling her neck as the headache begins to return. She thinks of Root, and her hands on Shaw's temples, and wonders if it will work as well if she does it herself.

"It'll work out, just talk to her," Reese responds. Sighing, he pushes himself to a stand, walking around the bar and coming to hover over Harold, who types rapidly on a laptop across the room. Shaw finds her bonds to Samaritan breaking. Shaw finds that the person she trusts most on the side of the Machine no longer trusts her, the creator of the AI never did, and the two cops could very well be falsifying their easy disposition towards her. While she's still regaining her wits, she knows for a fact there was never a time in her life she didn't have a set cause to fight for. Even when there was no one in her corner, she knew what she wanted. Now, she's lost in the thick of things, and has only a few short hours to choose which side of the war she's on.

Her head pulses with the pressure of it all, and she shuts her eyes tight, pushing her fingers forcefully into her temples. To her disappointment- but not to her surprise- the trick does not work the same.

______ ||Phase Two: Black and White|| ______

"They're dead," Shaw says bluntly into a pay phone, leaning against its side and watching the people walk past her on the streets. Placing the phone between her ear and shoulder, Shaw looks at her hands, picking at the dry blood under her nails.

"It's about time you called," Greer responds, ignoring her previous statement. "Last I checked, you were on your way to Maine."

"If you can track it, so could they," Shaw spits back irritably. "I ditched it. I still got the job done."

"You've been completely off Samaritan's radar for hours," Greer reprimands, and Shaw rolls her tongue across her teeth in agitation.

"Well, I'm here now," Shaw grumbles, locking her eyes onto the security camera that looms over her, its blinking red light a constant reminder of the millions of eyes watching her throughout the city. "And _they_ are _not_."

"How about Detective Fusco?" Greer questions. "He fell from Samaritan's eye shortly after Phase Two was activated."

"About that," Shaw starts slowly, smirk curling onto her lips. "I thought he knew too much. I have him- somewhere safe- for now. I wanted to know if you had any orders on his behalf?" Shaw keeps her gaze on the lens, waiting for Samaritan to answer. A pause stretches over the line before Greer clears his throat.

"It appears that the Detective is too much of a risk to keep alive," Greer tells her monotonously, taking orders from the Artificial Intelligence. "You are free to dispose of him."

"Yes, sir," she replies, devilish smile growing.

"Make it quick, you have work to do here, and we expect your return to base by the end of the afternoon."

"Yes sir," she repeats, lifting the phone from her ear.

"And Sameen," he adds in the last moment, his clever voice swirling with dark humor. "Enjoy yourself."

Hanging up, Shaw stuffs her hands into the pockets of her peacoat, slipping down the nearest alleyway, escaping the prying eyes of New York's latest god. She crosses a small, unkept street, slips through an abandoned row-home, then clambers through the gaping hole in the back wall, coming out in the back room of the bar. Dusting herself off, Shaw pushes open the cheap wooden door, and the sunlight spills onto the linoleum kitchen floors. She walks over it as the broken fragments crack and peel below her shoes, coming out to see Root and Harold stationed at the bar, hunched over computers with their hands dancing across their keyboards. She watches them a moment, focus leaning mostly towards Root, as Reese's words ring back in her ears.

_'It'll work out, just talk to her.'_

_But what is there to say? What did I do wrong to begin with?_ Shaw is unsure, and decides to push it farther back in her mind. Rolling her neck, Shaw steps into the musty room, leaning against the bar between the two.

"I have about two hours to get back to Samaritan's home base," Shaw tells them, peering between the hackers.

"We only need another ten minutes," Harold responds tactlessly, eyes not leaving the screen. For some reason unbeknownst to Shaw- maybe his mistrust towards her or his overall mistrusting personality- Shaw feels her lips curl into a sneer at the sound of his listless voice. She has half a mind to bark a biting remark back at him, but holds her tongue.

A burning tugs at the side of her face, and Shaw flicks her eyes to the left, instantly met with Root's eyes on hers. Unlike before, they are closed off, their light, adoring brown replaced with a murky, sinister onyx. Shaw turns towards her, only for Root to forcefully pry her eyes away, focusing all of her attention on the computer screen. Shaw, sliding closer to the brunette, looks her over precariously, scouring her mind for the right jumble of syllables to say.

"How's the shoulder?" Shaw asks, voice quiet in a hopeful attempt to sound- at least a little- apologetic. _Apologetic for what? Beyond me._

Root shrugs it in a short circle in response. "Fine," she mutters distantly, and Shaw's eyes narrow, trying to find another way to slide back onto Root's good side.

"Before we go, I can change the dressin-"

"It's fine, really," Root responds, an exasperation to her voice that leaves Shaw slumping back.

"Are you sure about this, Ms. Shaw?" Harold asks her, and Shaw pulls her attention back to him.

"Don't have much of a choice to back out now," Shaw responds flatly, eyes darting momentarily back to Root. "Are you _sure_ this will work?" He gives a single, solemn nod, and Shaw pulls back, swiping a set of car keys she'd very recently acquired off the edge of the counter, mind relaying the plan over and over in her head. _It's going to work- it has to work._

Shutting the laptop, Harold stands, buttoning his blazer and placing his fedora back onto his head. His eyes are gleaming with excitement, but also bogged down heavily by doubt. There is no doubt, Shaw insists to herself, yet she is still unsure. All she has to go on are these four people's word, and a few grainy flashbacks that hit her when she least expects them. Are they lying to her? Is this all a large rouse to get her to turn against her people? There is only one way to find out.

Shaw follows Harold towards the door, only to be greeted by John Reese's lanky form only feet from the outside world.

"Change of plans," he tells them, placing his hand on Harold's back, turning him swiftly and steering him back towards his bar stool.

"Don't you think it's a little _late_ for a change?" Shaw responds impatiently.

"I think our plan should involve everyone getting out of there _alive_ ," Reese tosses back coolly.

"Last time I checked, no one penciled ‘ _martyr_ ’ into our schedules."

Reese pauses a moment, searching the air for the correct words. "Take Root with you. She's good with computers, and she's back up."

"The plan does not involve the use of _firearms_ ," Harold interjects, standing abruptly. Reese eases him back down, blue eyes both charmingly considerate and stern.

"Plans evolve," Reese replies, then, turning to face Root, his countenance grows more serious. "Go with her." Root doesn't move. And Shaw is certain she never will. Rolling her eyes, Shaw wheels around, storming towards the door, mind set on one thing and one thing only: The mission. _Whether they want to cooperate or not, it's up to them,_ Shaw grumbles to herself, slinking down the side street towards the SUV parked at the corner. _But I have a check-in to make._

Yanking open the car door, Shaw slides in, revving the engine angrily and throwing the vehicle into drive. Foot ready to pound the gas, Shaw freezes as the passenger door opens and Root steps quietly in. Laptop tucked neatly away into her computer bag and the grip of her handguns peeking out of one of its small compartments, Root stares straight ahead, face pale and eyes ungiving. Shaw, unsure what to think, loses her immediate fury, pulling out into traffic slowly, mind buzzing and heart humming in her chest.

_'It'll work out, just talk to her.'_

Subconsciously, Shaw reaches up her sleeve and scratches at her forearm, nails digging into the open wound that resides there, leaving- once again- blood below her fingernails. Scowling, Shaw runs her bloodied hand down her jeans. She swallows hard.

"Did you decide that-"

"This is about the Machine," Root interjects flatly, and Shaw nods, pressing her lips together, wracking her brain for any other conversation starter.

"Well, we have a half hour drive ahead of us, so there's time to talk about things _other_ than that," Shaw tosses out casually, wondering how Root will respond. _Will she say something? Will she explain her sudden coldness?_

"I have nothing else to talk about," Root replies, her voice slightly off as she slouches back in her seat, hand outstretched towards the radio's volume. Shaw's eyes flicker down, watching as Root's fingers dangle just before the up arrow, and something inside her like glass shatters.

"How about you explain to me why you're acting like this, _huh_?" Shaw recommends frostily, lips twitching with a sneer.

"Acting like _what_?" Root replies, matching Shaw's dangerous tone. "Acting like I've been _betrayed_? Like I've been _lied_ to for over a _week_? Maybe it's because I _have_." Shaw rolls her jaw in a tight circle, anger beginning to simmer in the pit of her stomach.

" _Lied_ to?" Shaw shoots back rhetorically. "You want to talk to _me_ about being _lied_ _to_?" There's a moments silence that hangs deafeningly in the air.

"There's a difference," Root replies at last, and Shaw barks out a cruel laugh.

"And what's that?"

" _I'm_ not the one who lied to you. _We_ didn't lie to you. _They_ did." Shaw's fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel, eyes hardening.

"So you expected me to have known that? I had _no_ way of understanding anything that's going on. I _still_ don't."

"You were ready to _kill_ me," Root tells her, hurt blossoming out from the center of her words. " _And_ Harold. _And_ John. Just because you were told to."

Shaw shakes her head, disgust crawling on her skin. "I had orders, and as far as I knew, that was my job. And you know what," Shaw adds, voice rising. "I didn't _kill_ any of you. I _could've_ , but I _didn't_. You helped me bring them to that bar so we could sort things out. And you were _fine_. _You_ were okay with kidnapping _your_ friends and tying them down, so what changed, huh? What finally clicked in your head that I now seem like a monster to you?"

" _Samaritan's_ the monster," Root responds quickly, and Shaw can feel Root's eyes burning insistently into the side of her face. "A monster you wanted to get me and everyone else to work for."

Suddenly, Shaw sees their kitchen conversation unfold, and a wave of pure, intoxicating irritation washes over her. " _That_?" She spits. " _That_ is why you're so upset? I was doing you a favor-"

"If that's your idea of a favor, I'd _hate_ to see a punishment," Root interrupts icily, and Shaw grinds her teeth. "I was open to you- about everything," Root continues, voice hushed. "You used me for information, but you couldn't let me know what was going on in your head for a _second_?"

"I had things to figure out," Shaw responds gruffly, and Root's face turns up in a furious grimace.

"Things like what? Helping Samaritan send the world to _Hell_?"

"Things like trying to figure out who to _trust_ ," Shaw bursts back, finally snapping. Teeth clenched, knuckles white, and blood pressure soaring, Shaw struggles to take in an even breath. "In case you forgot, I was _thrown_ into this mess. I didn't _ask_ to have my brain wiped, so I'm sorry if _my_ being held captive and stripped of _my_ memory is too hard on _you_." The last line is thrown like a sucker punch to the jaw, and by the way Root's mouth falls agape, Shaw knows she landed a fatal blow.

"Shaw-"

"I don't want to hear it," Shaw spits, suddenly through with the conversation. Her words are finally catching up with her, and at seeing her openness, she wants nothing more than to swallow up her sentences like the conversation never happened. Yet, it's as if a lever is jammed within her, leaving more private ideas to spill from her mouth. "I've been living off of two different versions of a reality, trying to decide which one is right. On top of that, Finch doesn't trust me, and maybe he shouldn't, because I'm still on the fence about who to trust as well. I have months’ worth of their word against a _week and a half_ of yours. Whether your Machine is right or wrong, I have no idea, but _you_ are the _only_ reason I've even _considered_ giving it the benefit of the doubt."

"Do you _trust_ me?" Root asks, quieter than a whisper and more serious than death, yet it screams through Shaw's head, its cacophonous syllables bouncing off the walls of her skull, magnifying themselves and slamming into her brain. Shaw doesn't respond- she isn't sure how.

Instantly, Shaw catches Root's movement from the corner of her eye, and training kicks in like second nature. Snatching her glock from atop the center console, Shaw points it directly at her, eyes never leaving the road. Root freezes entirely, and- once realization begins to leak into Shaw's mind- she takes a quick glance to her right. There- seeing her weapon aimed at Root who looks at it, not a single emotion written in her features- Shaw feels nausea consume her. With a heavy sigh, Shaw drops the firearm, shaking her head tiredly as she drives down a long stretch of well-paved asphalt, approaching a parking garage.

"You should lean under the dash," Shaw mumbles out, rolling down her heavily tinted window and slowing as she stops before the ticket meter. However, instead of spitting a slip into her hand, a red, laser-like beam strikes out at her, waiting. Cautiously, she leans in, placing her eye before the ray. She watches her vision swim between concrete walls and a blinding red. Suddenly, a small light turns green atop the meter, and the gate rises.

Driving in, eyes set straight ahead and muscles taut, Shaw selects a parking space close to the building the six story lot enshrines. She throws it into park stiffly, then turns to leave. A hand falls across her forearm.

"Sam," Root says quietly, leaning towards her, eyes a silent plea. One Shaw does not bother to understand. Shrugging her off, Shaw escapes the vehicle, slamming the door roughly behind her. Seeing it parked there, windows so dark that even the sun could be hidden within, Shaw wonders what she's going to do. It's her last chance to decide what side she's on, and for the first time in her life, she's completely unsure of which side she prefers.

_________ ||Phase Two: Welcome Home|| ________

"It's so good to see you again, my dear Sameen," Greer greets her as she steps through the electric sliding doors. She's nearly blinded by the sterile white walls that welcome her, and struggles to keep her eyes from fluttering shut. She takes in his crisp, black suit and impeccable hair, and realizes for the first time what a train wreck she must appear to be. Hair in slight disarray, clothes dusted with a thin layer of dirt and obviously lived in, and eyelids heavy with dark circles.

From either side of her, two men approach, metal detectors at the ready as they begin to pat her down. Shaw raises a brow Greer's way, and he returns with a sympathetic smile.

"We can never be too sure," he informs her, and she barely refrains from rolling her eyes. _You are a respected operative_ , Shaw reminds herself, holding her head up a little higher and pulling the slouch from her stance. A burly man clamps his meaty hands down on her arm, and she glares at him murderously. His lip twitches, eyes flaring microscopically with a second's unease, before he continues up her arm. His fingers dig into her open wound and her eye twitches with the sharp pain. Stopping, the man turns his face to Greer- who nods.

"Would you roll up your sleeve, Ma'am," he asks her in a deep voice, and- with a sneer that only reaches him- she complies. Shrugging off her peacoat and rolling up her long, black sleeve, she reveals the ghastly slash in her upper arm, a thin ooze of crimson spilling down her forearm. Eyes settling on Greer, Shaw watches his eyes as he studies the mark.

"That looks painful," he mutters aloud. "What happened? Was it Miss Groves."

"Try the brooding man in the _suit_ ," Shaw shoots back cooly, eyes not leaving his. "Jackass pulled a knife on me before I snapped his neck." With the words, a satisfied air settles around Greer, and a quaint smile tugs up the wrinkles of his face.

"Well, we are all glad to have you back," he informs her humbly. "You are the reason why the world can finally live in safety."

"So," Shaw says slowly, rolling down her sleeve. "When do I get to go out again?" This earns a chuckle from Greer, and he pulls a cigar from a carton alongside a lighter. He strikes up the flame, taking his time to let the cigar catch as Shaw waits, patience dwindling. Finally, with a thick puff of smoke, Greer re-immerses himself in the conversation.

"You're quite the eager one," he tells her warmly. "I will ask Samaritan if it has any commands, but for now, celebrate your accomplishment. Change your clothes, grab a meal- settle back into your home."

Shaw, giving a small nod in response, steps away from the men surrounding her, throwing one last haunting glare the first man's way before starting towards the locker room. As she goes, she watches men and women in crisp suits stand from their cubicles, all smiling brilliantly and clapping silently in her honor. Unsure what to make of it, Shaw shoots them all back a clever grin, bringing two fingers to her head and making a small saluting motion before escaping to a room of white walls and gray lockers. Meandering down the aisles, Shaw peers at each of them, remembering the agents to whom they belong.

 _Locker 287, Clyde Hart. Single father of three boys and a golden retriever. Locker 296, Anna Plessy. Parents died in the attacks on 9/11 and she's been set on fighting terrorism ever since. Locker 313, James Kaddle. Married to a man dying of glioblastoma, he had a light personality_ \- one of the few characters Shaw'd truly enjoyed working with over the months. Seeing the lockers with every story of every agent behind them, Shaw wonders how so many people could be in the wrong. _How is it possible that hundreds of good people are the so-called bad guys?_ The more she thinks of it, the more ludicrous it sounds. _The word of four against the word of four hundred?_ The math just doesn't add up. But then, she thinks of Root and the spark in her eye at brining the Machine back to save others. She thinks of Greer sicking a small army of agents on her, and the grenade that nearly killed her. _And all for 'a good cause.'_ She thinks of the memories that have been flooding her mind over the last week; how a childhood she never knew has returned to her, and how every event fed to her by Samaritan has been unable to withstand even the slightest breath of doubt. Sighing, she shakes her head.

_Locker 333, Sameen Shaw. Stuck in the center of two opposing forces; wedged at the center of good and evil._

Turning the combination with the mechanic movements of memory, she yanks off the lock, pulling out a folded pant suit. Changing quickly, she stops, reaches to the top shelf, and grabs a small wad of gauze, taping it down to her cut before sliding her dark gray blazer on.

"Well, aren't _you_ a sight for sore eyes," a cheery voice rumbles her way, and closing the locker door, she finds James's boyish face grinning her way. She gives him a quick smile, leaning against the row of lockers as she peers down at her cell phone.

 _16:28._ _I have seventeen minutes._

"How you been, rookie?" He asks her jokingly, toothy grin igniting the room. She folds her arms, a certain ease leaking into her veins.

"Better than you by the looks of it," Shaw replies, taking in his dark eyes and sunken cheeks. "Long nights at work?" She asks him.

"Hospital," he corrects, and Shaw nods with silent understanding. "Thank God for the health insurance we get, huh?" He asks her, striving to keep the conversation light. "Enough about me though, what is the home town hero going to do on her first day back?"

"As of right now?" Shaw responds, buying time as she finds a good enough excuse. "I'm thinking a bathroom break would be _excellent_." James gives a hearty laugh that warms the room, then straightens his jacket.

"Well, don't let me hold you up," he responds politely, taking a step away. "But hey, you wanna grab a drink after work? On you, of course," he adds with a wink, and Shaw chuckles in spite of herself.

"I'm only paying if you can match me," Shaw shoots back, and his already ear-to-ear grin grows.

"Tough one, but challenge accepted." And with that, he  begins to retreat.

"Hey," Shaw calls after him, making him pause. "You've been working here for a while, right?"

"Uh, yeah," he responds, facing her with a curious countenance. She nods, choosing her next words carefully.

"Do you by any chance remember when I started working here?" His eyes widen, and she quickly continues. "It's just been a blur, you know? And with this last mission I was on, it made me think about it."

James bites his bottom lip, eyes floundering as he holds his entire body rigid. Then, he clicks his teeth, eyes scanning the room as if to pull a date from the air. "Halfway point of 2015, yeah? Yeah, that sounds right, because that was the year we were remodeling."

"Oh, yeah, right," Shaw replies with a chuckle that she can only hope sounds relieved. "Got it. Thanks." He nods, giving her a last, fleeting look of curiosity before turning around the corner, falling out of sight as his footsteps evanesce into ghostly silence.

 _Shit_ , Shaw thinks to herself, smoothing down her jacket and heading back towards the door. Her mind is a series of blitzkriegs and nuclear disasters, a personal World War III all to herself.

2015 was not the year Greer had told her. It was not the year marked down on any of her paperwork. 2015 was the first year James remembers seeing her, and only a few months after Shaw's apparent kidnapping. Another puzzle piece snaps into place, and suddenly, the picture's become crystal clear.

_______ ||Phase Two: Search and Destroy|| _______

"I'm here, Harold" Shaw speaks silently into her earwig, glancing around at the sea of servers engulfing her. She stands before a single computer at the center of the electronic labyrinth, shoes barely making a sound as she struggles to not awake the sleeping giant. "Now what do I do?"

"You're late, Miss Shaw," Harold tells her flatly, and she rolls her jaw in an irritated circle.

"It's kind of hard to sneak around when there're cameras constantly trained on you," she spits back, eyes flickering up to the security camera above her head. It watches her with a dark lens, and she wonders if it's betraying her location as they speak. "Can you hurry this up?"

"You need to log onto the computer using your access code. Bring up the computer's terminal. From there, I'll guide you on how to set up the software." Shaw does as she's told, fingers flying over the keyboard as she quickly runs through the small security obstacle course set before her.

"Who's typing for you?" Harold questions her curiously, and she furrows her brow, not once stopping her impeccable typing.

" _I'm_ typing," Shaw responds cautiously. "Why?"

"It's just that you've never been- never mind," he responds, pushing the thought from his mind. Widening her eyes, Shaw continues to type, brining the terminal to the center of the screen.

"Okay, now what," Shaw asks, and Harold clears his throat.

"Type exactly what I say," he instructs, and she hovers her fingertips above the keys, heart beginning to thump with anticipation. "M-K-D-I-R space, bracket D-I-R closing bracket, enter..." He continues in this fashion, Shaw scribing it into the terminal. "Okay, now," Harold tells her, voice hushing with excitement. "You just have to hit enter and remain within arm's length from the compu-"

"Agent Shaw, what a surprise to find you here." Shaw freezes, eyes closing tightly as her teeth grind- _busted_. The sound of a dozen safeties clicking off greets her ears, and she has no choice but to turn to face him.

 _Greer_. A reptilian coldness in his eyes and a blood-chilling half-smile on his lips, Greer looks her over, less than amazed.

"I knew from the moment you stepped through the doors there was something off," he informs her, gaze glinting as if he's enjoying the encounter. "You almost fooled me, and you even had Samaritan under your boot, but you've always had a tell."

" _Please_ ," Shaw scoffs, leaning back against the small desk, hands behind her back as she feels across the keyboard in search of the enter key. _C'mon, c'mon, where is it._

"Curiosity has always been your Achille's Heel, I'm afraid," he tells her with a small sigh. "Asking Agent Kaddle about your employment-" he shakes his head with a short, condescending tick of the tongue- "I never thought you would be so sloppy."

"So what happens now?" Shaw asks, cutting to the chase. She trails her finger across a key seemingly longer than the rest, and sends a silent prayer out, hoping that this is the right one. Inaudibly, with barely a hair of movement, Shaw hits what she can only assume is the enter key. _Please work._

"There are two options," Greer responds simply. "We could bring you back with us and put you through the Correction Program once again. _Or_ ," he continues, a devious pull on his smirk. "Considering it did not bring sufficient results the first time, we can retire you."

'Ms. Shaw, is everything alright?' Harold asks, near fretfully, in her ear. She doesn't answer him, merely giving Greer a cool chuckle.

" _Retire_?" She asks with wry humor. "That's the _best_ term you can come up with?"

'Shaw? What's going on in there.' Shaw's sardonic demeanor falters at the sound of Root's voice. 'I'm coming in.'

"No," Shaw breathes out harshly. "Get out. It's already done."

"And who would that be?" Greer asks, and Shaw is tossed back into reality. "Miss Groves, perhaps?" Shaw's mouth dips into a menacing frown, affirming his hypothesis. "Where is she hiding, Shaw?" He asks her slowly, letting her eyes sear into his skin without so much as a flicker of fear. "Maybe the parking garage; that seems reasonable enough." With a short nod of his head, two men in suits lower their weapons, turn, and head back for the door.

"Hurt her and I'll _kill_ you," Shaw growls, eyes narrowing and blood beginning to boil. She takes a mental inventory of her clip, and the number of operatives before her, and how many bullets would be needed to take them all out.

"Who said anything about hurting her?" Greer responds, an air of shock in his haughty voice. "No, no, my dear, I think Miss Groves would serve a greater purpose among _us_."

"That didn't work out too well the first time around," Shaw snarls, nodding to herself. "What makes you think round two will do _any_ better?"

"Progress is made through trial and error," Greer answers simply. "Which, your squalid bunch does not seem to understand. Just as before, Samaritan has hundreds of servers around the world like this one, did you truly believe that infiltrating only _one_ could take it offline?" A sly smile spreads across Shaw's features at that, and she shakes her head in condescension.

"This was never about taking Samaritan offline," Shaw responds cleverly. Greer raises a brow her way, and Shaw- coming to accept that she's not making it out of this room- decides to at least relish her last few moments. "We don't want to destroy the servers, in fact, we need them more than ever. You see, the Machine is infinitely large, and we have no real space available for all of Her. However, the DNA- the few most crucial strands of code- they can fit in a pretty confined space with the right compression algorithm." Slowly, with soft, fluid motions, Shaw begins to tug up her sleeve, revealing the gauzy covering over her flesh wound. "You see this?" She asks him.

Lips pressed tightly together, he nods. "Is there something in it?"

"A pretty large worm," Shaw answers him. "Technology these days- did you know you can rig a computer virus to bluetooth? Just by standing only a foot away from the computer, I can upload _everything_." Greer's eyes ignite with rage at that, and he lifts his chin angrily.

"Shut everything down," he commands his men. "Let nothing leave this _site_."

"Oh, it's too late for that," Shaw interrupts as the men begin to disperse. "Nope, by now, the Machine's code has already imbedded itself, and every part of Samaritan's code it touches, it's rewriting."

"Samaritan is too evolved for such trivial programming," Greer spits.

"Not when it thinks it's getting an update from a secure account holder," Shaw points out matter-of-factly, and Greer stiffens, fear finally crossing his face. Yet, not fear of her, but rather fear of losing his greatest possession. "Now, it'll just be the Machine's code with all of Samaritan's resources."

"Shut it down anyway," Greer snarls. "Get everyone on this- now." Another two men dash from the scene, leaving Shaw with only eight opponents and Greer. _Maybe there's a chance after all._ He turns, watching them run, and when he comes back to face her, there is a cold abyss in his eyes that chills Shaw to the bone.

Shaw swallows hard, steeling her nerves, mind humming with last minute thoughts. Did Root make it out of the building? Did Reese hear what she said and heed the advice? She needs them to be gone; she can't let them be trapped here. _Not like me._

"Kill her."

Greer's words jar her from her thoughts, and Shaw is brought back to reality just as eight firearms are trained at her center mass. She thinks of withdrawing her weapon. Of dashing into the maze of servers to play a deadly game of hide and seek, but decides against it. In truth, while what she'd told Greer was true, she had no way of knowing whether or not the worm was finished uploading. However, if she moves before everything is set, the entire plan could potentially crumble. _Even if I'm dead, my body will be close enough_. So, swallowing down her urge for flight and a good follow-up fight, Shaw balls her hands into tight fists.

There is an ear splitting shriek from somewhere outside, and a moment later, the lights sputter out, leaving only the eerie blue hue of a million blue lights speckling the server towers. Gunfire erupts, the sharp sparks of bullets connecting to metal igniting small bursts of yellow light that steadily climbs towards her. An operative grunts, falling to the ground, and Shaw takes the chance to check the blindingly white screen:

**UPDATE COMPLETE**

With a flood of triumph, Shaw escapes her place before the screen, extending her firearm and beginning to shoot into the cluster of agents. A few of them fire back, and Shaw is instantly hit with the searing pain of hot metal in her lower leg. Swearing under her breath, she limps out of sight, throwing herself down into an aisle of servers as operatives storm past, missing her entirely in the overwhelming darkness.

"Freeze!" A familiar New York accent bellows. "NYPD!" More shots ring in the air, and more feet rush past. Shaw, clenching her teeth, presses her hand to her leg, feeling the thick warmth of blood as it seeps between her fingers and sinks into her jeans. She suppresses a groan as she pushes her thumb deep into the gash, hoping to staunch the bleeding.

Suddenly, a hand cups her mouth, a second wrapping tightly around her waist, pinning her hands to her sides as she is drawn back, someone's breath hot in her ear.

"Hey, Sweetie, miss me?" Root coos breathily, and Shaw's heart leaps to her throat. Choking it back down and tearing free of Root's grasp, Shaw turns to face the hacker.

"Didn't I tell you to get _lost_?" Shaw demands, although- while she'd never admit it- she cannot remember ever being more content. Even with the weight of their last confrontation dangling over her head, it all seems distant and trivial in this moment; Shaw too enveloped with relief to remember her irritation.

"And leave you to have all the fun to _yourself_?" Root shoots back playfully. "I don't think so."

Shaw rolls her eyes. "So, does Fusco really have the backing of the NYPD with him?" Shaw asks jokingly, and Root's smile glows in the dark.

"I think he's just been waiting a while to yell that at someone," she replies, and Shaw chuckles in spite of herself. Despite a bullet in her leg and a small army Hell bent on killing them, something feels irrefutably right about this, and Shaw knows without a doubt that this is where she belongs.

"Any idea how many we're up against?" Shaw asks, staggering to her feet, all the while trying to hide her considerable limp from Root as she sneaks towards the edge of the server wall. Root presses in close to her side, withdrawing a gun in each hand and holding them up at either shoulder.

"More than we have bullets for," Root answers. Shaw feels her stomach begin to turn, and wonders what Root's doing here. What any of them are doing here. _Why would they put their lives on the line to save me? After what I did to them?_ She doesn't know, and- considering their current predicament- does not have too much time to dwell.

"Root," Shaw starts, unsure what she wants to say, but knowing she wants to say something. "If we don't make it out of this mess, I-"

A blaring alarm drowns out her words, accompanied by flashes of red light as the security system screeches on full alert. The heavy metal clunk of locks being sealed rattles the ground below them, and the shouts of John Reese and Lionel Fusco mingle with the cacophonous echoes of the ongoing firefight.

" _What_?" Root yells out over the sirens, and Shaw speaks again.

Again, Root is unable to comprehend. "I- I can't hear you," Root shouts, and Shaw, not in the mood to repeat herself a third time, merely shakes her head.

"For God's _sake_ ," Shaw mutters to herself, rolling her eyes. Then, without warning, she grabs Root by the jacket front, pressing her lips forcefully to Root's, hoping that actions really do speak louder than words. _Especially when words are being drowned out by a God forsaken fire alarm on steroids_. Falling back, Shaw barely takes the time to register Root's wide eyes and dropped jaw, nor her own fluttering heart and electrified nerves. Instead, she throws herself into the open expanse of tiled floor, firing at anyone unfamiliar.

One by one, they drop like flies, and Shaw finds Root's presence at her side, firing at anyone Shaw misses. Shaw stumbles, leg beginning to betray her, and Root instinctively wraps her arm around Shaw's waist, all the while continuing to hold her ground with her left hand. Together, they inch their way forward one bullet at a time, Shaw covering the right flank, and Root the left, until there is nothing.

Silence falls over them, interrupted only by the white hum of machines and a few groaning operatives and their heavy breathing. Two characters approach them, one tall and slender, the other stocky with tightly curled hair. In the pale light of the computer screen, Shaw makes out their sweat crested faces and glowing eyes.

  
"How much ammo do you still have?" Reese asks them, checking his own clip. Silently, they all take stock, coming together with a combined thirty-six bullets.

"Great," Fusco comments, forever the pessimist. "What're we gonna do, hope to shoot three of 'em at a _time_?" Reese sends him an irritated glare, met by Fusco's defensive shrug.

A cell phone rings.

Then another.

And another.

Soon, every pocket on the ground is lit by a cellphone screen, all vibrating and belting out ringtones in the hopes of being heard. Shock crosses their faces as each look to one another, slowly protruding their own cells, seeing an unidentified caller on the line. Root merely stands like a statue, eyes focused somewhere just beyond them. Slowly, anticipation growing in Shaw's stomach, she taps her ear wig to answer.

" _Can. You. Hear. Me?_ " An automated voice asks Shaw, and an ineffable disbelief washes over her.

"Absolutely," Root says aloud, Shaw turning her face towards the brunette.

"Hell yes," Reese utters not a second later.

"Uh, yeah?" Fusco responds, somewhat apprehensive. Shaw, smirking, raises the volume a little higher.

"Loud and clear," she answers, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

" _Eight O'clock_." Instantly, all four twist their bodies, guns poised as a man rounds the corner. Root shoots first, and the man drops. Without a second's hesitation, the group rushes to the nearest door, Root still supporting Shaw as they clamber forward.

"It's so good to hear your voice again," Root informs the Machine with a smile, a vibrant life in her eyes that Shaw hadn't seen in years. _In years,_ Shaw thinks to herself, own secretive grin growing. _I can remember it all._

With one quick shot at the automated lock, the doors _'whoosh'_ open, revealing an equally dark fortress awaiting them.

" _Ten O'clock,_ "

" _Seven O'clock_ "

" _Three O'clock._ "

On and on the commands go, each relishing their few minutes in God Mode. All around, Samaritan agents fall, allowing them to make their escape.

" _Two O'clock,_ "

" _Four O'clock._ "

They make it to the door, shoving their way out and dashing down the hall and to the outside world. Before Shaw knows it, white tiles give way to concrete, and the parking garage welcomes them with the sudden warmth of a sun low in the sky. Taking in a breath of fresh air, a certainty settles into Shaw's bones, and peering over to Root, a long overdue joy rumbles up from her stomach, stretching its fingers to every corner of her being.

_The Machine lives._

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, SUPER long. (The longest yet, yikes!) Nonetheless, I really hope that everyone enjoyed it!!!! And I hope everyone plans on watching the Season Premiere of Person of Interest Tomorrow! I just can’t wait


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